Stories from the Abyss
by NajaLau
Summary: When the Avengers seek out the help of an expert on the occult, they get more than they bargained for in the form of two brothers who have literally been to Hell and back. No one could have foreseen the consequences of this meeting, but as the old saying goes: When you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you.
1. Chapter 1 - The Asset

**Warnings: **Swearing and vague references to alchol, sex, and death. Mostly mild, but later chapters _will_ include more mature and explicit content. Expect things to get dark. Specific warnings will be posted for each individual chapter. No slash!

**Timeline(s): **Deliberately unspecified, but roughly 3-4 years after _The Avengers_ movie and sometime after the (still unaired) season 10 of _Supernatural._

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The Avengers _or _Supernatural. _In fact, the only thing I lay claim to as my own is any and all mistakes since I have no beta.

**Author's Note: **Although everything that has already happened in the Marvel Cinematic Universe/Supernatural is canon, I am playing loose and fast with both universes going forward, which includes shaking up and adding to the Avenger rooster (borrowing heavily from the comics) and referencing events that have not happened onscreen. I have also _not_ incorporated what little is known about the upcoming 2015 Avengers movie, since that just seemed like borrowing trouble. So there.

* * *

_"Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, _

_dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. _

_Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, _

_b__lickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein."_

_Translated:_

_"He who fights with monsters should look to it_

_ that he himself does not become a monster. _

_And when you gaze long into an abyss _

_the abyss also gazes into you."_

_- Friedrich William Nietsche (1844-1900)_

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**Chapter 1 - The Asset**

"I still don't get why _I_ had to come," Tony bitched, his petulant tone combining with his suit's characteristic metallic pitch to produce a rather odd effect."In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an extremely busy guy what with being a superhero, saving the world on a regular basis, inventing nifty stuff, _and_ going to awesome parties. Honestly it's exhausting. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm just saying..." Tony's ramblings were cut short by the arctic look Hawkeye sent his way even as the sniper's focus remained firmly on their surroundings, a desert eagle clutched comfortably in his right hand.

Ignoring the almost visible waves of hyper vigilance that were rolling off his team member, Tony shrugged and continued his tirade: "... that if this guy is as paranoid as you say, why couldn't you have brought Captain Goody-Two-Shoe instead? A handshake and that 'I am an American hero' crap Cap does and I guarantee that your mystery guy will be first in line to join the Avengers' fan club. And yes, before you ask, we do have an official fan club. Not that I've spent any time researching it of course, and I definitely don't know that the president is a really, really hot chick named Stacy who loves yoga, kittens, and for some reason heavy metal rock, which in my opinion just makes her exponentially more hot."

"Stark."

"Yes?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Looking at the team's resident sniper and certified sociopath (he had the S.H.I.E.L.D. psych profiles to back up the claim), Tony instantly swallowed his instinctive snarky reply.

Hawkeye's face had taken on _that_ expression. The expression that he had worn for months after New York and which quite frankly freaked Tony the hell out. Barton's eyes were completely dead and his face had gone carefully blank except for the slightest hint of a smirk twisting his lips; half a challenge and half a promise of violence and a not-so-swift death to anyone who fucked with him.

It was, Tony had realized after the first few weeks of sharing a living space with the man, the sniper's fall-back position when he felt stressed, threatened or uncertain. And it came complete with lethal startle responses and a sadistic streak that had made even the Widow blanch on occasion.

It was also shit-your-pants terrifying when it was focused directly on you. Especially if you had seen firsthand the kind of carnage a pissed off Hawkeye was capable of.

Waiting half a beat to see if his message had been received, Barton nodded and his cold smirk deepened for a second before he took the lead again, completely ignoring his garish gold and hotrod-red colored companion.

"Asshole," Tony mouthed mutely behind the safety of his helmet before picking up the pace.

What was his deal anyway? Sure Barton was a stone cold killer with some serious mental issues, and yeah okay, so his friend/comrade/lover/fuck-buddy or whatever the hell Mockingbird had been to him, had died a pretty horrible death three months ago. But Tony was definitely not going to think about _that_ right now because then he would start to remember other things, such as the sanctimonious garbage Cap had spewed at her memorial or Fury's callous spiel about tactical decisions and acceptable losses, and just thinking about it made his teeth itch and the permanent coil of burning anger in the pit of his stomach roil.

So no, he was not going to think about Bobbi or the fucked up mess her death had left the Avengers.

Anyway, Barton's issues had issues. According to his S.H.I.E.L.D. files, Loki's brainwashing had only been the rotten cherry on top of a truly shitty sundae that had been his life up to that point. Tony was actually a little impressed that the guy was as mentally stable as he was. On a good day he could even be pleasant company with a surprisingly funny, if somewhat twisted, sense of humor and a clearly unhealthy obsession with blowing shit up. A vice Tony himself shared. This had lead to some quality bonding time before Pepper (now also categorized as a toxic mental subject which was studiously avoided) had put her foot down in concern over the continued structural integrity of the tower.

Hawkeye was a teammate, someone he trusted his life with on a regular basis. And yes, on a good day Tony would even categorize Clint as a friend; albeit a scary, antisocial, and sometime slightly psychotic friend. Today, however, was obviously not a good day.

Tony sighed. He had really hoped they'd moved past this part of the teambuilding process because quite frankly the fact that he was more often than not thrust into the role of the responsible adult, the peacekeeper, the one who, for Christ sake, 'played well with others'; well, that sentence in itself pretty much just summed up how incredibly screwed up the rest of the team's social skills were.

Fuck it! He sucked at walking on eggshells anyway, and it was not like Barton was actually gonna shoot him. And even if he did, there really wasn't much damage a bullet could do to his titanium enforced armor, even if Hawkeye was the greatest marksman in the world and, standing a mere five feet away, could probably single out a particular alloy molecule and hit it.

"You seem unusually grouchy there, Katniss." Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound. "Did Granny Russia kick you out of her bed with blue balls this morning?"

Tony could see Hawkeye's shoulders tense almost imperceptively at his first barb. The archer's smile, when he turned around and stared at Iron Man, was downright nasty. But his eyes had lost their dead expression and instead sparkled with sudden glee, which Tony decided should count as a win in the grand scheme of things.

"You do realize that Natasha can hear you over the comms, seeing as she's running this op, right?"

Oh shit. Fuck. Shit. Holy shitfuck. He was dead. Like literally dead. Tony felt his guts turn to water and he swallowed thickly. The Black Widow's real age had only recently been revealed to the team and while she was still smoking hot, like ridiculously supermodel going on goddess hot, the knowledge that she was over 80 years old had really put a crimp in his favorite sexual fantasies starring the red-haired assassin. It didn't seem to bother Clint though, if the traffic around Natasha's door, monitored dutifully by Jarvis' hallway cameras, were anything to go by. Not that he had been keeping tabs of course, since that would be creepy and stalkerish.

"I'll buy you a new Lamborghini if you don't kill me when we get back," he offered up as a Hail Mary to the suddenly very ominous silence on the comm link (static was for inferior engineers).

Holding his breath he quickly did a mental tally of the pros and cons of living, sleeping, and shitting in the suit 24/7 vs. finding a nice isolated cave somewhere to live in for the next couple of years.

"Make it two new Harley Davidsons and you've got yourself a deal." Came the blessedly cool and, as always, calm voice of Romanoff over the comm. "Oh, and Tony. If you ever call me that again, I will cut out your tongue and give it to Pepper in a nice box with a big pink bow," she threatened pleasantly and with completely sincerity.

"Deal!" He accepted gratefully, ignoring the bit about she-who-shall-not-be-named. And also carefully ignoring the little voice at the back of his mind pointing out that it probably wasn't normal to be threatened with actual death and/or bodily harm by your friends and colleagues on a daily basis.

Hawkeye, the bastard, had smirked the whole way through the conversation. His eyes had never stopped sweeping for threats though, nor had his finger slipped so much as a millimeter from the perfect pressure point of the trigger.

Still feeling the cold sweat of his near miss crawling down his neck, Tony couldn't help but feel deeply resentful of the whole situation. He hadn't asked to be out here saddled with a pissy hawk and a scary spider in his ear, in fact he had vehemently opposed this assignment. The hangover from, let's be honest not so much last night as this morning, was steadily making its presence known in the slightly stale air of the suit and now that he was thinking about it the cut on his right hand was starting to itch annoyingly without any chance of relief (a little known fact was that random itches were the bane of his existence as Iron Man).

"Who the hell is this guy I'm slogging through the ass end of nowhere to meet anyway?" He asked grumpily.

"An important asset," came the Widow's smooth answer. She had apparently decided to join the conversation now that the radio silence had already been broken. Either that or she was attempting to cushion Hawkeye's last fraying nerve by relieving him of the need to engage with Tony.

"Oh well, if it's an _important_ asset." Tony was rather proud of the amount of sarcasm he'd managed to infuse into the sentence.

He could clearly hear Natasha's sigh over the comms. "He's an expert on the occult. Supposedly one of the best, even though we have next to no intel on him. And what we do have is..." He heard a slight hesitation in her voice, as if she was carefully choosing her next words, "... even if the rumors have been wildly exaggerated... worrying."

Which explained why Hawkeye was in DEFCON 1 mode. Apart from _hating_ going in blind to a meet, the mere mention of magic or the occult usually meant hours spent on the range shooting things with more than a little prejudice - and if he was out on a mission, then God help the poor schmuck that had the misfortune of being his target. But then again, after Loki who could really blame the guy?

Still. A year and a half ago, a disgraced former apprentice of Strange had decided to muck around with dark forces far beyond her power in a regrettable fit of megalomania. The result had been a swirling vortex of fire and brimstone raining down destruction on a small sleepy town in Nebraska. As soon as the kill order had gone out (and the non-killing members of the Avengers had removed themselves from the field) Hawkeye had taken her down. Hard. To this day Tony still got a little nauseous when he saw shish kebab.

"I still don't see why I had to be the one to come out here," Tony returned to his original complaint. "Why can't Fury's pet agents handle this little meet 'n' greet. I mean we're the A-team. Literally. Huh, there must be some sort of copyright infringement thingy right there. I should check into that when we get back."

"Because he would only meet with members of the Avengers," came the dry response, ignoring the last rambling part, before continuing: "'Said he wanted to meet someone he could recognize from the media. And he asked specifically for you. Which you would already know if you hadn't been more or less comatose during the briefing." The Widow's voice managed to convey cool disapproval while being completely neutral at the same time, which all things considered was a rather impressive trick.

Tony didn't raise to the bait. He also didn't need to ask why Natasha, their best manipulator and therefore negotiator, wasn't out here instead of a jumpy and slightly homicidal Hawkeye. Although medical had declared her almost completely healed from the whole gigantic cobra and snake venom poisoning ordeal, 95% was still not the same as a 100%, and there was no way in hell Clint would allow his partner to go into a potentially dangerous situation playing wounded. Bobbi, for obvious reasons was also out, and since this was more of a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation than Avenger business, at least one agent had to be present. Pym, the smug bastard, was currently sitting comfortably in the jet (nose practically glued to a Stark pad) acting as potential backup should things go sideways.

Cursing whatever whim had made the asset (or just ass, ha!) request him specifically for this date, Tony petulantly trampled on the small twigs and medium branches that lined the path they were currently following. He felt a slight rush of satisfaction from this minor act of destruction right up until the moment Hawkeye turned around and gave him a murderous look for making a racket and giving away their position.

Some days Tony really hated his life.

Iron Man had initially flown them the first couple of miles from where the jet had set down in a barren field. Hawkeye had quickly ordered them down though, and they had now been walking for ten agonizing minutes through a mostly wooded area (side note: the suit had _not_been designed for land based locomotion ).

Tony's earlier comment about this being the ass end of nowhere was, if not particularly kind, not completely unfounded either. During the last half hour of the flight on the jet, the only thing the landscape had been able to offer was a few scattered small towns, mostly of the one main street variety, connected by long stretches of highway, lots and lots of fields as well as the occasional dark green splotch of a forest or black twisty bends of a river, back-dropped by an unassuming mountain range in the horizon.

Despite the general lack of landmarks, Hawkeye appeared to know exactly where they were going. Tony hadn't bothered to find out and wasn't even completely sure which part of the country they were in, having slept through most of the two and half hour flight. The archer finally slowed down when they cleared the last of the small patch of trees they had been walking through and took stock of the decrepit barn, sagging and groaning under its own weight, that now faced them. Parked next to the structure was a shiny black muscle car; a classic Chevy Impala, Tony noted absentmindedly, and in amazing condition too despite the clear mileage on the machine. The main barn port stood slightly agape, as if to invite them in.

Tony was not impressed.

"Seriously?" He groaned. "What is this, a hoedown party for hillbillies? And I didn't even bring my dancing shoes."

"Hawkeye, report," Romanoff's voice cut through Tony's complaining.

"Meeting point identified. The car is here as described. No visual on the asset so far." Hawkeye answered in a clipped voice.

"Acknowledged. Proceed as planned."

"Copy."


	2. Chapter 2 - A Hunter's Greeting

**Warnings: **Swearing. Otherwise a pretty light chapter.

**Disclaimer:** Once again, I own nothing and am just playing around for the fun of it.

**Author's Note:** So far, I have namedropped/introduced Barbara 'Bobbi' Morse aka Mockingbird, Henry 'Hank' Pym aka Ant-Man and Stephen Strange aka Doctor Strange/The Sorcerer Supreme. Just in case anybody didn't quite catch the references.

* * *

**Chapter 2 - A Hunter's Greeting**

Before they got any closer to the barn, Hawkeye turned and caught Tony's gaze.

"All right, here's the plan. We go in, you say as little as possible, you don't make any smart comments, and if things go fubar we improvise as always. Otherwise follow my lead. Understood?"

Tony's "Sir, yes sir!" garnered him another patented Hawkeye death stare. He felt like he was almost starting to built a certain immunity to them by now.

Impossible as it seemed, Hawkeye's tension appeared to ratchet up another notch as they approached the dark entrance to the barn. Tony wouldn't be surprised to learn that the agent could actually feel the individual vibrations from the ground in the hyper-aware state he was in. He suddenly wished he had asked more questions about the man they were about to meet. When the famously ice-veined Hawkeye was this keyed up it usually meant that shit was about to hit the fan in a spectacularly unpleasant way and today Tony had the dubious honor of being smack dab in the middle of the spray-zone.

With a careful, and clearly reluctant, move Hawkeye holstered his gun. Tony reminded himself that they were here to meet and possibly recruit a potential ally and not to engage a hostile in a battle to the death or something equally dramatic. On the other hand, bitter experience had taught them to always be prepared for and, depressingly enough, to also expect the worst possible outcome.

Doing a quick systems check, he surreptitiously armed the small rockets hidden under his shoulder plates. He wasn't too proud to admit that he had stolen the inspiration for them from Hammer's micro fusion detonators. Scratch that, Hammer was a slimy toad and an amateur to boot so yeah, he was definitely too proud to admit to the plagiarism, but at least they packed a really mean punch and with his own personal improvements they were 17% more destructive and just under 22% more accurate.

"Oh, by the way, although the asset said he'd meet you alone, look out for a partner. Apparently he and his brother operate as a team." Natasha's cool voice advised him from the comm link.

Watching Hawkeye step in and get swallowed up by the shadows of the barn, Tony couldn't help but mutter: "Oh great. You know, that's the kind of thing you might want to mention _before_ your partner just willy-nilly entered a potential ambush. Just saying, you could've slipped it casually into the conversation anytime. I mean we're only walking into a potential life or death situation here."

"You were too busy bitching to listen. Besides it was included in the risk assessment during the briefing. Now shut the hell up, Tony, and focus on the mission," the Widow shot him down.

Swearing softly, Iron Man followed his teammate into the cool darkness of the old barn. The suit's sensors immediately adapted to the change in lighting and so Tony didn't have to waste any time getting his eyes to adjust to the gloom, unlike the very unhappy looking Hawkeye.

The first thing he noticed was the fine white line of what looked like crystallized rock salt he had to step over as he passed the threshold. He just managed a mental, 'huh, weird', before his eyes were drawn to the array of creepy symbols and sigils adorning basically any surfaces that would have them.

He really, _really_ hoped that the dark red color was from a paint can and _not _blood as he suspected. Not entirely unused to seeing strange occult markings - they did after all have _The_ Sorcerer Supreme on the Avenger's payroll - Tony was still pretty sure that they had just officially crossed from the moderately weird into the twilight zone of batshit crazy.

The guy standing at the other end of barn, however, was almost painfully normal looking compared to his handiwork. Out of all the adjectives Tony's slightly stunned brain could dredge up, 'blue-collar' seemed to fit the bill most accurately. With maybe just a hint of white trash thrown in to balance the look. He wore heavy, scuffed leather boots, patched and faded jeans, a nondescript long-sleeved T-shirt covered with an ugly-ass tartan shirt, and to finish the look an honest to god Redneck cap covered his short-cropped hair and hid most of his features in its shade.

His body language was wary, muscled arms crossed over his chest and eyes glittering alert and suspicious from the shadows of his face. Oh, and he was also clutching a truly evil-looking knife in his right hand with the air of someone who knew exactly how the business end worked. Leaning against his left knee, a sawed-off shotgun rested in comfortable reach and Tony thought he could spot at least one ankle holster complete with a handgun as well as the sheath for another knife strapped to the other leg.

Well, good on him for being prepared. So was Tony, not to mention he was pretty sure Barton had a small arsenal tucked away, God alone knew where, in his Kevlar suit. In fact the guy had a really unhealthy relationship with his weapons - Tony had once caught the sniper snuggling his bow as he slept off a concussion after an 85 hour mission. Natasha had taken pictures (which none of them had ever seen since). Of course, Thor's obsession with his hammer made Hawkeye seem like the sanest person on the planet and Tony himself had been known, on occasion, to spend slightly more time than was strictly necessary waxing his suits, so really who was he to judge?

At the sight of the two Avengers, a slow smile spread across the stranger's face, flashing white teeth through the scruffy beard that covered his chin, but otherwise doing nothing to dispel the air of danger that simmered around him.

"Aw man, this is so _cool_." His voice was deep and gravelly, yet still managed to convey a fanboyish enthusiasm.

Taken slightly aback from the mismatching signals being sent, crazy vs. normal, menacing vs. friendly, Tony decided to follow orders, hang back, and let Hawkeye take the lead.

"I take it you are 'borax-kills-monsters-no-it-really-does'?" The sniper's voice held a slightly pained note at being forced to use the ridiculous internet call sign. Tony felt his lips twist in an involuntary grin. There was a good chance he might actually come to like this guy.

"Nah, that'd be my brother. He's the one that likes to chat with strangers on the internet. I've tried to tell him over and over again, stranger-danger Sammy, but I guess you just can't stand in the way of true love." The man drawled and, from what Tony could make out from the shadows, waggled his eyebrows in suggestive manner at the last bit.

At Hawkeye's impassive stare, the guy sighed and pushed away from the table he had been leaning against. "All right. I guess we'd better get this show on the road then." Although his voice hadn't lost its drawl, there was now a more serious note to it. Tony also didn't miss the way he'd grabbed the shotgun and now held it expertly, yet relaxed, in his left hand. He suddenly felt a warm glow of appreciation for the bulletproofness of his armor.

"Before we can become BFFs and make friendship bracelets, there are a just couple of formalities we have to get out of the way." The guy, Tony mentally decided to dub him Cletus as an homage to Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel from the Simpsons, had apparently decided to take the lead in this little pow-wow. Casting a quick glance at Hawkeye, he decided to keep his promise and be a good little sidekick. For now.

"Formalities?" Hawkeye's tone, while not hostile, was definitely not friendly either. In fact it might be the single most neutral thing, Tony had ever heard. This was so not going well.

"If it is within acceptable mission parameters, humor him," Romanoff's voice ordered softly from the ether.

As if sensing the mounting tension, Cletus gave them another disarming smile. "Don't worry. I just need you two fine gentlemen to step forward a bit into this nice circle," he indicated a big circle painted in the middle of a carefully cleared space in the center of the barn, which was incidentally right between the two parties. The circle had been filled out with obscure symbols and what looked to be the broad outline of a pentagram.

Eyeing the circle, Tony mentally shrugged and started to move towards it. However, Hawkeye's hand shot out lightning fast and halted him before he had taken more than a single step.

"What does it do?" This time the agent didn't fully manage to hide the distrust in his voice. Wonderful, the magic-phobic and super paranoid professional killer was being asked to step into a great big magic circle by a potential nutcase or possibly evil mastermind. What could possibly go wrong?

"Nothing at all. _If _you are, who you say you are, that is." Cletus the potentially nutty mastermind answered easily, although his eyes were suddenly very, very focused and he subtly shifted his stance, almost as if he was readying himself for an attack.

Risking a quick glance at Hawkeye and seeing that the agent's raging paranoia had (surprise, surprise) not been eased by their host's cryptic response, Tony almost groaned in frustration. He also noted that Hawkeye's left hand was casually hovering very close to his gun. Damn it, he was so _not _going to end up in an all out firefight over something as stupid as a finger-painted circle, magic or not.

Almost as if sensing Tony's line of though, Hawkeye hissed out, "_Tony,_" half in warning and half as an order.

"It's not gonna hurt. Scout's honor. I just gotta be sure you're a 100% human, man." Cletus said in a reconciliatory, 'what can you do' tone of voice.

Saying a quick prayer, Tony quickly brushed past Hawkeye and, before he could think too much about it, stepped into the circle. Freezing in anticipation of whatever the hell magic circles did when they were activated, he held his breath. Nothing happened. Whatsoever. Truth be told, it was just the teeniest bit disappointing.

"Told'ya."

"What do you mean 'a 100% human'?" Tony couldn't help but ask curiously, as this moment where absolutely nothing horrific was happening to him continued to stretch on pleasantly.

"There are all kinds of nasties that can take on the skin of people. Speaking of, I'm gonna need to you to take off the helmet _Iron Man_." The way the guy's face lit up when he used Tony's superhero moniker clearly gave away that he was a fan. A fan holding a very big knife and a shotgun in the middle of a satanically redecorated barn, but hey it was still flattering. Tony briefly considered introducing him to Stacy.

In the meantime, Hawkeye had apparently decided that the risk of stepping into the funky circle was outweighed by the mission objective of playing nice and, although he didn't look real happy (when did he ever?), he at least managed not to shoot anybody, which was definite progress in Tony's mind.

"Allrighty, so I'm guessing not demons." Cletus smiled at them beatifically. "But like I said, you can never be too careful."

Over the next couple of minutes they were alternately handed a small silver flask filled with lukewarm and rather stale water that they were ordered to drink from (Cletus sipped from it first in a show of good faith) and another bottle, this time plastic, containing a liquid which smelled suspiciously like... "Is this Borax?" Tony asked incredulously.

"Yup."

"Huh. I hope you don't expect us to drink it."

"Nah, just pour some of it on your skin."

The guy shrugged at the look Hawkeye sent him. "Worse case scenario you get a little sticky. It's a small price to pay for humoring me," he said, unconsciously mirroring Romanoff's words.

Hawkeye grunted in reply and poured a liberal dose over his forearm. By this time, Tony had divested himself of most of his left metal glove and his faceplate was open. He quickly followed Hawkeye's example.

Having never had any real intentions of following Hawkeye's original instructions of silence anyway (as if), Tony had pretty quickly realized that if they wanted any chance of this meeting ending in anything other than bloodshed, he'd have to handle most of the social niceties. The business end of this meeting, he'd leave up to Hawkeye though, since he was still a bit fuzzy on who the hell this guy was and why they needed him specifically.

Besides it just wasn't in his nature to keep quiet when there were sarcastic comments to be made. Nobody put Tony in a corner.

"So what's next?" He asked brightly. "You want us to prove that we know the super secret handshake?"

"Nope. I just need to see your blood," Cletus whipped out a slender silver blade from thin air and handed it hilt first to Hawkeye. "But that secret handshake sounds awesome. Maybe you can teach it to me later."

Apparently resigned to the situation, Barton didn't hesitate for a second before drawing a thin line of blood across the meaty part of his arm. Tony, however, balked when he was handed the knife. "No way am I cutting myself with a knife. It is way too teenage angsty for my image. Besides it cannot be hygienic to use the same knife."

Hawkeye once again mobilized his death stare, clearly running out of patience, "Tony either you do it yourself... or I help you."

Tony had been around the archer long enough to know a real threat when he heard one. "Crap."

Licking his lips nervously, he grabbed the knife and tentatively cut the skin on the back of his hand. Damn, that hurt way more when you knew it was coming. Bright red blood welled up.

"There. Happy?" Tony knew he was sulking, but couldn't quite find it in himself to care. "What the hell was it even supposed to prove?"

"That you're not a 'shifter," came the unhelpful answer. "Or a werewolf, I suppose," Cletus added almost as an afterthought. "Anyway, congratulations. You're human."

The silver knife was whisked away to whatever pocket dimension it had originally come from and the shotgun was put down on a nearby table. But the last knife remained firmly in Cletus' hand, almost as if it was a natural extension of his arm.

Apparently passing the tests only bought so much trust.

"Sorry 'bout all of this. But at least now you get to say that you've tried a proper hunter's greeting."

"Lucky us," mumbled Tony sarcastically. "So what now?"

A scarred fist was offered, first to Hawkeye and then Tony, who shook it awkwardly with his free and now bleeding left hand. Cletus' grip was strong and rough, calloused skin and scarred knuckles attesting to both hard work and a history of violence.

Seeing him up close, Tony gauged the asset's age to be somewhere in the mid-thirties. He had good looks and a boyish charm that would have made him seem a lot younger if it hadn't been for the old look in his eyes complete with a couple of crow's feet and a few faint scars cutting across his chin and forehead.

"So, what can I do for the Avengers?" Cletus asked as he lead them to a rickety table and three even shakier chairs which had clearly been salvaged from somewhere in the barn. Tony wisely chose to keep standing, but Hawkeye took a seat, letting down his guard slightly.

"Why don't we start with an introduction?" Hawkeye offered, in what was, for him, an almost friendly manner. "I'm..."

"Clint Francis Barton, codename Hawkeye," Cletus interrupted. "The world's greatest marksman, former US marine scout sniper, and all around badass."

Turning to Tony, his smile once again threatened to split his face. "And of course Tony Stark, _the_ Tony Stark. Also known as Iron Man. Dude, you're like my hero. You've got it all, the chicks, the cars, the flying robot suit!"

Tony couldn't help grinning as the guy geeked out. "I agree, I'm awesome. Just wait until you see my private island, it's got..." he caught himself as he felt Hawkeye's heavy gaze on him. Really, the guy could do with some lightening up. "So yeah, maybe this isn't the best time. But trust me, it is very, very cool."

"Aw man, that sounds _sweet_."

Feeling his control over the situation slipping, Hawkeye chose that moment to loudly clear his throat. The happy smile on Cletus' face disappeared in a flash, as if he had been caught doing something wrong, but before Tony could blink it had been substituted with a cocky grin that didn't quite reached his eyes.

"Dean. Dean... Hunter," Cletus, or apparently Dean, introduced himself. The slight hesitation before he gave up his last name pretty much told Tony that it was a fake. As if reading his mind, Romanoff's voice murmured: "He's lying. His name is Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas to John and Mary Winchester, both deceased. He has a younger brother Samuel, born May 3, 1983. No other known family."

Without giving the slightest hint that he'd just heard Romanoff's impromptu mini-biography, Hawkeye simply nodded and said: "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Hunter."

"Yeah. So, uh, what is this all about?"

"We need your help locating and retrieve someone, who may or may not have been taken by force."

"Have you tried going to the police? I hear they are very gung-ho about kidnappings." Winchester joked.

"The man in question is very powerful and as a consequence has very powerful enemies." Hawkeye continued, ignoring the comment.

"And what makes you think this is within in my... area of expertise?" Winchester asked, now serious.

"We found his rooms in shambles, mystic symbols not unlike these, " Hawkeye nodded at the barn walls, "on the floor, painted in blood. And it looked like there had been a very powerful explosion, except there was no residue left to give any hint as to its origin or nature. The only thing we did find was the body of a local barista and the outline of what can only be described as a pair of very big wings burnt into the carpet."

Winchester grew very still. "I thought you already had a 'wizard' on your team. Shouldn't he be the one to deal with this?"

"Stephen Strange, The Sorcerer Supreme. And yes, we would normally go to him for this kind of thing." Hawkeye gave him a humorless smile. "The only problem is, that the man who is missing _is_ Stephen Strange."


	3. Chapter 3 - Bird's Eye View

**Warnings: **As usual swearing. Overall pretty mild but does include offhand references to PTSD, death, and child abuse.

**Disclaimer: **Nothing has changed since the last chapter which means that I still don't own _The Avengers _or _Supernatural._

**Author's Note: **For those of you who don't already know the Leeroy Jenkins reference I command you to stop reading immediately and go google it. You might as well also type in Darwin Award while you're at it.

* * *

**Chapter 3 - Bird's Eye View**

"Well, I think that went really well!" Stark commented brightly as he lifted them off the ground, thrusters scattering leaves and twigs around like a miniature hurricane had suddenly come into existence.

Looking down at the barn, which was steadily shrinking to the size of a doll house as they gained altitude, Clint had to agree. By all accounts, the mission had been a success.

It was about goddamn time too.

He knew that some of the other agents at S.H.I.E.L.D. had started a betting pool on how long the Avengers' streak of bad luck would continue, and with a track record of twelve botched missions in a row (ranging in severity from the Wasp and Iron Man accidentally colliding mid-air and crashing into a hotdog stand to dozens of dead civilians littering the streets and Mockingbird drowning in her own blood) the size of the pool had started to reach the 'retire to a beach for the rest of your life' level. Also, those agents were giant assholes for not letting him get in on the bet.

Lucky fucking number 13.

Not that he was counting this as a win yet. He knew better than to start celebrating before the mission was officially over. In fact, he wasn't going to let his guard down until they were safely back at the Tower and had gone through the whole nine yards of medical checkups and debriefing. As a soldier, he had seen too many missions go fubar in the eleventh hour because the men had relaxed too soon. Not on his watch. Never again...

For a brief second, the thundering sound of wind in his ears turned into the barrage of heavy artillery. Without missing a beat, Clint automatically slammed the mental door closed.

Nonetheless, things could have gone much, much worse. Stark had of course been his usual jackass self, but all things considered he hadn't done too badly. There had even been a moment where he'd managed to distract the asset and give Clint the split second he'd needed to compose himself and not give away that he had spotted the other Winchester comfortably positioned in the rafters and aiming a Remington 700 at his head.

Clint couldn't tell whether Winchester's request for the presence of Iron Man at the meeting had been a stroke of pure tactical genius or a random whim. Although after having met the guy, the smart money was probably on fifty-fifty. Clint did know that no matter how unhappy Tony had been at being dragged along, Clint had been even less pleased at the prospect of being saddled with him.

Out of all the Avengers, Iron Man was probably the last person you'd want to bring to a tense, high-stake, and volatile situation. The billionaire was about as manageable as a three-year-old on a sugar rush and while the Iron Man suit was more or less bulletproof, the guy standing next to him, in this case Hawkeye, usually wasn't.

Although to be fair, Stark had long since earned his place on the team, beyond merely footing the truly obscene bills and playing a glorified sugar daddy. He would never make a good spy, but he was an integral part of the Avengers and no one could say he didn't pull his own weight.

His tactical awareness was still for shit, though. Genius engineer he might be, and Clint would even admit that he was a half decent aerial fighter, but as long as he continued to blindly barge into kill boxes like today, he continued to be a liability in Clint's book. And liabilities had to be babysat. And Clint _hated_ babysitting.

Sometime during the first year of the Avenger Initiative, Iron Man had pulled another one of his truly spectacular and idiotic stunt during an engagement with a group of wannabe terrorists outfitted with black market Chitauri tech. In the aftermath, Fury had marched into medical and played a video of a jackass running kamikaze-style and screaming into battle and getting his whole crew massacred.

At first Thor had been confused, Banner was still zonked out after his transformation, Natasha had merely raised an eyebrow, Cap's expression had been half puzzled and half disapproving until a smile finally tugged its way free, and Clint had been in stitches. It didn't matter that the video was from a computer game or that Tony was still unconscious and therefore couldn't properly appreciate it. It was still the best thing Clint had seen in years. 'Leeroy Jenkins' had promptly become the codeword for whenever Iron Man decided to try out for the Darwin Award, and Clint still delighted in the pissed-off look Tony would give him whenever he ended up in medical and Clint quoted "at least I have chicken" at him.

He had even sacrificed a whole weekend of leave to go spray-paint those exact words on the still smoldering rubble that had once been Tony's Malibu house before the moron had challenged an international terrorist on open air. Admittedly the gag had become a whole lot funnier _after_ the team had gotten confirmation that Stark was still alive. Whatever. Natasha had laughed.

"Hey Romanoff. We're about five minutes out so start warming up the jet." Clint heard Stark report over the comms.

"Roger that," came Natasha's clipped reply.

Watching the drab landscape pass by and ignoring the acute discomforts of being squeezed by a metal suit flying at 70 m/h through the freezing Nebraska air, Clint allowed himself a brief moment of relief. It wasn't often that his gut was wrong, in fact he barely needed one hand to count the number of times it had happened, but he was profoundly grateful that today had been one of the rare exceptions.

Hawkeye was no stranger to going into dangerous situations with little or no intel, but in this case it hadn't so much been a lack of information as it had been a question of sorting the 'confirmed' from the 'speculative', the 'probably true' from the 'obvious bullshit', and then of course there was the pile of 'holy shit, this is fucking insane' which could pretty much double as a horror story. Coincidentally, while that last folder had been the least substantiated it had also been the thickest.

Between the police rapports, witness statements, and the stories collected from anonymous and sketchy internet forums (not unlike the one where Natasha had finally gotten in contact with username 'borax-kills-monsters-no-really-it-does') the Winchesters were painted as anything from deranged, sadistic serial killers to pretty much the saviors of the world. About the only thing all the accounts agreed on was that they were unpredictable, extremely dangerous, and that you _really_ didn't want to mess with them.

Of course, that description fit most of the people, and occasionally creatures, the Avengers faced on a weekly basis.

One thing he _could_ say for certain about the Winchesters was that they were professionals, either trained or self-taught.

After the initial contact had been made and Winchester had agreed to meet, on his terms of course, the Avengers had only received a time and the conditions that Iron Man and one other well-known Avenger show up alone and on foot. Winchester had withheld the coordinates for the location of the meet until just three hours prior to the meeting, which with the flight time from New York had meant only 10 minutes of prep time before they had to be in the air. The timetable as well as the remote location had neatly tied their hands and made any recon, except for satellite imaging which proved almost completely useless, practically impossible.

And as an added bonus, up until the moment when Hawkeye had spotted the car, they hadn't even had any concrete confirmation that the man they were meeting really was the infamous Dean Winchester.

Hawkeye could deal with screwy intel, no recon and minimal prep time, and even having his team players dictated by the professional killer he was about to meet. He had even been okay with Winchester having the home field advantage, and he'd anticipated that the younger brother would be lying in wait somewhere as backup.

It had made for every operative's worst tactical nightmare, but he could deal with it.

However, add to that a dash of completely unpredictable, fuck-with-the-laws-of-physics magic and you had yourself a truly hellish cocktail. Hence his bad feeling.

Thankfully, Winchester had decided to play the meet mostly straight and had gone with the threat of good old fashioned lead poisoning rather than 'Abracadabras'. Just for that small professional courtesy, Clint might actually come to like the guy.

He also grudgingly had to admire Winchester's scare tactics with regards to the ghoulish makeover of the barn. Apart from being dramatic, and therefore distracting, the symbols had also kept him guessing as to their nature and purpose. Keeping your opponent off balance was Strategy 101.

Case in point, there had been that single iffy moment with the circle, where Clint's intense dislike of anything remotely mystic had warred with his equally intense dislike of stepping directly into the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. For fucks sake, instead of the circle Winchester might as well have painted a big red cartoon X on the ground and asked permission to paint another one on his forehead for good measure.

Clint was intimately familiar with the risks of being on the wrong end of rifle scope, seeing as he was usually the one doing the sniping and smiting. He didn't have to like it (in fact his skin was still crawling from the imagined sensation of a bullet splitting his skull open like a watermelon) but that was just a part of the job. What he _hadn't_ known were the risks of stepping into that freaky-ass circle and that had made him hesitate and consequently jeopardize everything. And _that_ pissed him off.

Clint knew he was just a grunt - being surrounded by a bunch of geniuses 24/7 had repeatedly made that painfully obvious - but he was damn good at his job. In fact he was probably the best in the world at what he did. The only problem was that his training and hard-earned skills were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine when it came to dealing with things that pretty much said screw logic and triumphantly gave the laws of nature the finger.

You couldn't anticipate, plan, or prepare for magic, and as far as Clint was concerned every single bastard who dabbled in it deserved an arrow through their eye... and spleen, and lungs, and liver, and neck, and scapula because that hurt like a bitch, and then another arrow through the other eye just for good measure - preferably one with an explosive tip, too.

Before Loki, Clint might have been more lenient. After all, he was used to being sent on suicide missions, pitted against impossible odds, so what was one more disadvantage? If he was gonna pussy out over stuff like that he sure as hell would have done so a long time ago. He hadn't been more than 16 (on paper 18) when the army had first stuck a gun in his hand and dropped him into Hell with a pat on the back and a rote "Try not to get yourself killed, kid." Of course compared to Carsons, Afghanistan had pretty much been a five-star vacation.

So no, he didn't have a problem with putting his life on the line. In fact, if you asked him, there was no greater high. But when he stepped out into the battlefield he knew the game, knew the stakes, and knew he had the goods to pay up should he ever lose. Loki had changed all that. Had shown him that there was a whole new set of rules and that the winnings weren't just tallied up in blood, bone, and guts, but also in free will and souls. Things which Clint had put absolutely no stock in since he was about five years old, just like he'd stopped believing in the tooth fairy, Santa Claus or that his mother could protect him and his brother from their father.

Bottom line, Loki was a fucking cunt and if Clint ever saw him again he wouldn't be using his bow to turn him into a pincushion, no he'd be pushing the arrows in by hand, deliberately and ever so slowly. It was one of his all-time favorite daydreams.

Starting their descend, Clint easily spotted the field where the cloaked jet had flattened the thigh-high grass in a suspiciously jet-shaped pattern (S.H.I.E.L.D. was still working to come up with a solution for that particular problem).

Stark, the jerk, dropped him a foot and a half from the ground in front of the invisible plane. He still landed gracefully thanks to his old acrobat training even though his muscles were pretty much locked up from the cold.

Sending Stark and unamused glare, he decided to let it slide just this once since the billionaire, all things considered, had done well today. In fact, if Stark hadn't chosen to blatantly disregard Clint's orders and step into the stupid circle when he did, there was a very good chance that Hawkeye would have had a few more holes in his body now than when the day started. Not that he was _ever _going to admit to that.

Besides, he was pretty sure Tasha was already working on a plan to get him back for that 'Granny Russia' comment, bikes or no bikes.

The air shimmered as the cloaking field was momentarily disturbed when the hatch to the plane opened to reveal the Russian assassin in her black combat suit. "Coming?" she asked, her voice echoing strangely from the stereo effect of her standing ten feet away and at the same time hearing her through the still activated comms.

Walking the few steps to the stairs leading up to the jet entrance he wordlessly caught her attention. She shook her head minutely at the unvoiced question in his eyes. Shit, if the bug he'd planted was somehow malfunctioning they might have to go back and do this the hard way. And despite his best efforts, Clint was still a soldier at heart which meant that he was superstitious enough not to want to test his newfound luck.

He quickly followed her into the shadowy interior of the jet, not waiting for the muttering Iron Man as Stark struggled to get out of his suit - a process which he had apparently spent far less time perfecting than that of getting into the suit if the amount of habitual swearing was anything to go by.

Fury had long since established a zero tolerance policy when it came to wearing metallic and or robotic armor inside S.H.I.E.L.D.-owned vehicles to the chagrin of certain members of the Avengers. But apparently even shady and secret ex-government organizations were as much a slave to their insurance company's tyranny as Joe Everyman.

Natasha had set up a small surveillance desk complete with two monitors, slight overkill since they did not have a visual, and a state-of-the-art audio system which was being manned by Pym. At their entrance he looked up and unconsciously mirrored the Widow's small shake of the head indicating that they were still getting nothing.

"Shit," Clint voiced his thoughts out loud.

"Patience," Natasha counseled. "We caught the tail end of your chat with Winchester so we know it's functional."

They were walking a very fine line with the type of bug they were using. There was an unavoidable tradeoff between power usage aka life-expectancy and sensitivity, and the trick was to hit the sweet spot where it was able to pick up usable audio and transmit it back to them without burning through the battery. In a perfect world Clint would have planted the bug directly on Winchester, but the guy had offered him zero opportunities. Besides it would only have been a matter of time before it would've been discovered, and Clint didn't think Winchester would take too kindly to that kind of breach of trust this early in the game.

At Natasha's questioning eyebrow, Clint merely said, "Chair. Middle of the room." The Widow simply nodded her approval. If they were lucky the Winchester would decide to sit down for a long nice chat.

Letting the relative safety of the jet and Romanoff's presence ease the tension in his shoulder just for a moment, he allowed himself to mentally take a step back from the icy calm focus of Hawkeye in mission mode and instead let a brief glimpse of Clint show in his eyes. "I don't like this, Tasha," he said quietly. "Any of it."

In a micro expression so subtle and quick that anyone but him would have missed it even if they had been looking for it Natasha's face softened. Then she was the Black Widow, deadly assassin and master spy, again.

"I know." There was no reassurance, no promises, no sympathy to be found in her words, only acknowledgement. It didn't mean that she didn't care, just that there was nothing she could do about it and it wasn't in Natasha's nature to offer empty comfort.

Unlike the rest of the Avengers, Hawkeye and the Widow lived in a world ruled by necessity, pragmatism, and above all reality. They did the dirty jobs that none of the others would, or could, and when necessary shielded the rest of the team from the hard and ugly truths.

For instance, when the Avengers desperately needed the help of two dangerous criminals wanted for murder, torture, and grave desecration to mention just a few of the more gruesome highlights. It wasn't a question of what was morally right or wrong, it was simply a question of what was necessary.

To be honest, Clint wasn't even particularly bothered by the Winchesters' body count - after all his own easily matched theirs. Natasha's as well. And he had seen and done things in his life which rivaled even some of their more brutal crimes, although he had to admit that the photographs of a sweet elderly couple stabbed to death in their own home with a Christmas tree had left an impression.

The Avengers might have the strength to face down an entire alien army falling from the sky, but when the enemies no longer presented themselves neatly in terms of black and white or when issues of right and wrong became of secondary importance to the objective of the mission, then the Avengers Initiative lost most of its power and became vulnerable.

This weakness was the main reason why the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had decided kept the details about 'the asset' to a bare minimum. Clint had absolutely no qualms about shaking the hand of a deranged mass murderer if the mission called for it. Stark on the other hand...

Speaking of, Stark had finally decided to join them, lugging the compact case of his suit with both hands before dropping it deliberately to the floor with a clatter. He then nudged it with his foot to see if it had dented the tile underneath and smiled gleefully at the result.

At the sight of the surveillance equipment he turned and raised his eyebrows at Clint. "What the hell? I thought we were going home."

Clint didn't even bother dignifying that with a response.

"When did you even have time to... you know what never mind. I don't even want to know. This is exactly the reason why none of the other kids like to play with you Barton, you suck at sharing things."

When he still got no response, Stark groaned dramatically. "You did hear the guy say that he'd look into it and get back to us right? Because I'm pretty sure I did. Which means we can just go home and wait for his call. Look I know you have this whole, super spy thing going, but is this really necessary?"

Throwing himself down dramatically on the nearest sofa he continued, "I think I might've left the oven on back at the Tower and you know it's your home too, so maybe if we can just this once forego your paranoid..." Stark's diatribe was cut short by Pym's hand being held out in a gesture demanding silence.

"I've got something." Pym reported.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Art of Communication

**Warnings: **Once again a little swearing. Other than that it's all so tame I won't even bother with a warning.

**Disclaimer: **I hold no claim to either _Supernatural_ or _The Avengers. _This is only for fun, not profit.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long(ish) wait. But you know how it is in the summertime - I had oceans to swim in, sunlight to bask in, mountains to climb (well just the one), caves to explore, monuments to gawk at and delicious food to sample. I'll try and make sure that the wait between chapters won't be so long in the future but no guarantees.

Also cheers to those of you who a) left comments b) liked or c) followed. And of course especially thanks to anyone who opted for a combination of the three. Lastly browsers are also much appreciated and as always more than welcome.

* * *

**4. The Art of Communication**

_"Hey...krr-krr-krrrch... safe to... krr-krrrch... checked...krrch... perimeter... krrch... no sign of them." _Came the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester through the speakers, fading in and out but slowly growing in strength as he moved closer to the bug.

Pym fiddled with the settings in an attempt to clean up the audio and his efforts were rewarded a moment later when Winchester's voice came through loud and clear.

_"Oy, you need help getting down, monkey boy?"_

_" - fine Dean." _Hawkeye zeroed in on the faint new voice, trying to match it up against the one he'd heard on the interrogation tapes courtesy of the Baltimore PD. It was deeper, less boyish, but as far as he was concerned it matched closely enough to positively ID the would-be sniper in the rafters as Samuel Winchester.

_"Whatever man. But I am so not catching your ass if you decide to take a swan dive."_

Dean's cavalier attitude was belied a few seconds later when, _"Whoa there Sammy. Careful! I don't really fancy doing the concussion routine two nights in a row."_

All he got for a response were a few faint muffled grunts.

_"Heads up,"_ the younger Winchester instructed a moment later. There was a loud clatter as Dean apparently failed to catch whatever had been thrown.

_"Hey careful with the merchandise. You shouldn't treat a badass lady like this."_

_"Dude, you've gotta stop talking about your weapons like that. It's not healthy."_

Clint saw Tony smirk out of the corner of his eyes.

There was a final _thump_, roughly matching the sound of someone heavy landing after a jump of a feet or two.

_"You're sure they're gone?" _This time Sam Winchester's voice came through almost as strongly as his brother's.

_"What did I just say? I've known how to do a perimeter check since I was eight years old man."_ Dean sounded annoyed. Hawkeye mentally added that little piece of information to his growing file on the older Winchester.

_"Sorry. It's just..." _Sam trailed off.

_"What Sammy, what?"_

_"These guys are not exactly our usual playmates."_

_"Yeah kinda hard not to notice. But I don't care if they're super secret ninja spies or superheroes or whatever. There's no way they're sneakier than a wendigo or a demon or any of the other crap we deal with on a daily basis."_

_"But that's just my point. They won't be trying the same tricks. They've got satellites, electronic surveillance, and all kinds of stuff we've never really had to worry about before. It's a good bet they already got this place bugged."_

Hawkeye tensed.

_"Careful there Sammy, you're almost starting to sound like Devereaux_." Dean's tone was teasing. _"No really, I'm sure I can make you a tin-foil hat if you want. I'll even put a pretty bow on top."_

_"Shut up," _came the huffed reply.

Hawkeye shared a quick look with the Widow. Sam Winchester's profile had repeatedly singled out his intellect as a defining character trait. There was even an old dog-eared file from Stanford University that hinted at the different and much brighter path Sam Winchester had once upon a time been headed down. They would have to be careful not to underestimate him in their future dealings.

_"All right, show me what we've got_." Sam had apparently decided to pick his battles and let the issue rest for now.

_"How much did you catch?"_

_"Pretty much the whole thing. I've got a concussion, I'm not deaf." _Now it was Sam's turn to sound annoyed.

_"Yeah, yeah so you keep telling me. I swear, it's like you deliberately volunteer your head as a punching bag to the bad guys. I mean what is this - the third time this year alone?"_

_"Dean."_

_"You should've let Cas fix you up before we left. Seriously, what's the point of having a magic dude with instant healing powers living in the bunker if we never use him?"_

_"Dean!"_

_"What?"_

Sam Winchester's deep sigh was clearly audible over the speakers.

_"Focus."_

_"Fine," _Dean grumbled.

There was a slight pause.

_"Besides you already know why."_ Sam's voice was gentle, earnest, almost apologetic. "_Cas needs all the juice he's got for... you know. It really takes a lot out of him just to keep it contained and since the gates closed it's not like he can just recharge his batteries whenever he feels like it."_

_"You think I don't know this?"_ Dean's tone was angry and confrontational but underneath it was what sounded like a good dollop of guilt.

The subsequent uncomfortable silence dragged out so long that Tony actually started to squirm in unconscious sympathy.

It was Dean who finally broke it.

_"Whatever. But if you'd shot Iron Man because you were still seeing double, I'm not sure I'd've ever forgiven you." _The forced cheer in his voice was clearly meant as a signal for a change in subject.

_"Dude, I was like 40 feet away. No way I was gonna miss a shot."_ Once again, Sam had apparently decided to follow his brother's lead and let the conversation return to less sensitive matters. "_They were like sitting ducks."_

Dean's only reply was an affirmative snort.

Anticipating Stark's "Wait, what?", Clint quickly quelled whatever the billionaire was going to say next with a sharp motion of his hand.

"Rafters, 5 o'clock. Sniper rifle." He informed succinctly and then silently ordered Stark to stay quiet with another threatening look before turning back to the conversation happening in the barn.

"What do you mean 'sniper rifle'," an indignant Stark whispered loudly as if that would somehow circumvent the decree of silence.

Grinding his teeth, Clint realized that his hope that Stark was simply going to let this slide had probably been too optimistic.

"Sniper rifle as in very big gun aimed at your head the entire time you were in there screwing around and antagonizing the asset." He answered sarcastically while still keeping his voice low.

Clint couldn't help but feel a certain amount of satisfaction at the way Stark paled as this new piece of information was processed and the realization of just how close he'd been to a sudden and ignoble death dawned on him.

In fact, it had probably been an even closer call than Stark imagined. Hawkeye had absolutely no doubt that had either of them failed or refused a single one of the Winchester's wacky mumbo-jumbo tests, the brothers would have wasted no time in killing them. It was almost funny how close Stark had come to having his head blown off without ever realizing it when he'd tried to weasel out of doing the last test with the knife. Hawkeye on the other hand had not missed the flicker of eye contact between the Winchester on the ground and his rifle-wielding brother.

Well, what Stark didn't know couldn't hurt him. At least not retrospectively.

Tony appeared to contemplate his rediscovered mortality for a moment, but true to his nature he quickly rallied, latching on to Clint's last comment. "_I_ antagonized him? Are you kidding me? Hello kettle, yes this is pot calling to tell you what a colossal hypocritical ass you're being," he hissed.

Clint didn't deign to respond to that.

Natasha sent them both look telling them to shut the hell up. Pym merely looked on with mild interest.

"You couldn't have given me a heads up? You know the old 'Hey buddy, by the way there is a sniper aiming a rifle at your head so you might want to, oh I don't know, _put your bulletproof helmet back on_'." Stark's hissing voice had steadily risen in volume until he was easily drowning out the audio from the speakers.

Hawkeye merely lifted an eyebrow clearly conveying that it was not his job to inform Tony of such trivial matters. Especially since Stark should've spotted the threat himself. The fact that there had been no way to discretely let his teammate know in a manner that would _not_ have led to a freak out on Stark's part was besides the point.

Natasha's hiss of "Silent," and murderous glare was enough to put an end to Tony's tantrum although Clint thought he heard the almost inaudible mutter of "Asshole" coming from the billionaire.

Refocusing his attention on the Winchesters' dialogue he caught the tail end of Sam's comment: _" - spotted me within sixty seconds."_

"_What did you expect? The guy's the best sniper in the world. Of course he's gonna make you just walking into the room."_ Dean responded easily.

"_Oh so you knew that was gonna happen? You know, it would've been nice if you'd've told me that beforehand."_ Sam's unintentional mirroring of both Stark's complaint and bitchy tone was almost comical, eliciting a quiet guffaw of laughter from Pym and even twitching the corners of the Widow's lips into the briefest of smiles. Tony started sulking.

"_Aw come on Sammy. You knew as well as I did that the odds were pretty good that they'd send either Hawkeye or the hot Russian and that if they're even half as good as their reputation they'd spot you in a heartbeat."_

_"I still think it was a stupid plan."_ Sam's voice had lost most of its fire and instead sounded rote almost as if he was merely rehashing his point from an old argument that he had already lost once.

_"Yeah well, that's pretty much the Winchester M.O. by now,"_ Dean's response while light was equally tired and held a note of finality to it as if he saw no reason to open up the discussion again.

There was another brief pause.

"_So." _Sam said in a 'getting back to business' voice.

"_Yeah."_

"_Any chance they might be wrong about the wings?"_ The question came with its own fake optimism.

_"No such luck. It was definitely a barbequed ken doll."_

During the short meeting, Hawkeye had handed Winchester a pad with classified crime scene photos showing all the gory details of the body in Strange's apartment in high def. Winchester, he'd noted, had neither shied away nor shown any pleasure at the sight of the bloody scene although he had studied it intently. In fact, apart from a soft "Crap" his face and body language had remained completely blank.

"_And the symbols?"_

_"As far as I could tell they were mostly Enochian with a few other mixed in that I ain't seen before," _Dean almost sounded offended by this. "_Here I took pictures."_

_"Dude you do realize that taking photos with your camera phone of a picture on a tablet is the equivalent of... you know what, never mind."_ Sam quickly backtracked. Clint could almost imagine the look Dean must've been given him, having seen it all too many times on Barney's face a couple of lifetimes ago.

_"Hey a minute ago you were all mister paranoid. I'm not an idiot. It's not like I'm about to take tech from a known government operative."_ Clint had offered him the pad in the vain hope he'd do exactly that._ "That thing was bound to have all sorts of spy crap in it."_

The pad had in fact had four separate bugs in it, two of which had been designed to be obvious decoys, as well as a secondary GPS tracker. For some reason it also had Angry Birds Space edition installed complete with an unbeatable high score. Even the tech guys at S.H.I.E.L.D. got bored sometimes, Clint supposed.

"_Looks almost like a summoning circle or maybe a containment circle of some kind. Although I've never seen anything like it," _Sam Winchester mused, completely ignoring his brother's comments. "_It's got quite a few similarities with a devil's trap, but here... and here... I've never seen those symbols before. And the order and orientation are wrong too. Though from what I'm seeing it was definitely powerful hoodoo."_

"_Oh this is gonna be fun."_ Came the older Winchester's surly reply.

_"Yeah no kidding. The Sorcerer Supreme is a major player. Like think archangel or ancient deity big. Anything that could take him on has got to be seriously nasty."_

_"Fan-freaking-tastic. It's been a while since we last went up against something that could crush us like bugs."_

There was a pregnant pause.

"_You know, we could just let this be... not our problem." _Sam suggested hesitantly. "_I mean, Strange is supposedly a member of the Avengers right? They're superheroes whose actual job description is saving the world." _He continued, his tone growing more earnest.

_"What's your point, Sammy?" _Dean's voice had taken on a dangerous edge.

_"Just that maybe we could sit this one out. Let somebody else handle it," _Sam pleaded. "_Just this once."_

_"And when people starts dying, then what? Are we just gonna sit on our asses, huh?"_

_"They may not be hunters but they are qualified. It's not like they're rookies or civilians. They've even got a Nordic god on their side. Whatever this is let them deal with it. For once it's not our mess."_ Sam argued.

"_Yeah, well. I'm not sure that the innocent guy spending his last moment on Earth as an angel condom would agree with you on that." _Dean's tone was bitter.

Clint felt his mind stutter slightly at the word 'angel'. While the image of the dead body with its eerie blackened outline of giant wings had certainly conjured the word when he first laid eyes on the scene, he had just as quickly dismissed the thought.

Demigods and aliens, magic and 'science fiction' science he had long since been forced to accept as part of reality. But angels were another thing entirely. Angels smacked of God with a capital 'G' and God equaled religion which, as far as Clint was concerned, was nothing but a cheap con. Sometimes people conned themselves using faith as a placebo to feel better about their fucked up lives and sometimes people used it to con others, to manipulate and control and hurt them. In the end it was all the same poison, the same rot.

Hopefully Winchester's turn of phrase had just been another example of the brothers' crazy talk and nothing more. Because if not...

He chanced a brief glance at Natasha. He was probably the only living person on the planet who knew that Natasha Romanoff, daughter of the Red Room and the single most deadly assassin alive, was actually a true believer. Exactly what version of God she believed in, whether vengeful or benevolent, remained her secret. Clint only knew because he had overheard her dying prayer to God on those two occasions when she had been absolutely certain she was going to die; blood and the sacred Russian phrases flowing equally freely from her lips.

In her alone, Clint didn't consider faith a weakness. Didn't begrudge her it, if it brought her even the tiniest sliver of peace of mind. It was the least she was owed. And if not for his own, then for her sake, he fervently hoped that God and his angels would stay firmly in the realm of the ethereal. And if not. Well then, he'd just have to add another god to his kill list.

Putting the thoughts out of his mind, he turned his attention back to the Winchesters, catching Sam's sigh over the speaker.

"_We are not responsible for their actions. Hell, less than an hour ago we thought that there were only three of them left on Earth." _Sam's voice had gone soft.

"_Well, clearly some of the douche bags decided to extend their vacation. And I don't care what you say Sammy. They wouldn't even be here if it weren' for us. So I say that makes their mess _our_ mess too. And there's no way we're just gonna dump this on someone else. End of discussion." _The older Winchester stated with finality.

"_All right."_ Sam capitulated surprisingly.

There was a brief pause of shocked silence.

_"All right?" _Dean's voice was incredulous.

"_Yeah. All right."_ There was a certain smugness to Sam's tone.

"_As easy as that? You're not gonna argue some more."_

_"Nah. What would be the point?"_

_"Oh I don't know. What the hell was the point in the first place?" _Dean almost sounded angry at the ease with which his brother had all of a sudden given in.

"_I figured that if we're gonna go on another kamikaze run we should at least think it through first. Make sure it's what we really want."_ Sam explained simply.

"_Yeah right," _Dean snorted skeptically, obviously still suspicious of his brother's motives.

"_Besides, I can't remember the last time you were this exited. About anything really. You were practically gushing when you got to shake Iron Man's hand. It was actually kind of adorable." _Sam ribbed his brother.

"_Shut up. You're just jealous you got benched."_ Dean retorted weakly.

"_Whatever you say, man. But if you're too shy I'll be happy to get his autograph for you. You could frame it and hang it over your bed._ _It'd go nice with your machete collection_."

Clint couldn't quite make out Dean's grumbled reply, signaling that the brothers were in all likelihood starting to move away from the hidden microphone. In truth the Avengers had gotten almost suspiciously lucky that the two Winchesters had decided to have their conversation practically right on top of the bug.

Pym quickly dialed up the sensitivity, trying to capture as much audio as they could, but all they got was the muffled sound of one of the brothers laughing.

They all instinctively held their breaths for the next minute or so, straining to catch any other sounds. When none came it was predictably Tony who cracked first.

"Well. That was... interesting? Yes I think I'm gonna go with interesting. Anyway, seems like we're getting some new partners. Complete whack jobs, but you know whatever. Yay for us. Now who wants a drink?"

The hyper billionaire jumped up to go to the well-stocked minibar that he had somehow managed to sneak into the original S.H.I.E.L.D./Stark Inc. business contract as a potential deal-breaking clause should said item not be made available to one Anthony Stark on all S.H.I.E.L.D. premises. From what Clint understood, the S.H.I.E.L.D. legal department had spent months fighting dirty to get the clause voided but had only managed to amend it somewhat so that certain exceptions and a 'within reason' sub-clause had been added.

Natasha gave a brief nod at Pym, telling him to start packing the equipment up. Clint rolled his shoulders and started for the cockpit.

"_Agent Barton?" _Sam Winchester's voice cut suddenly through the silence of the jet. "_I hope you got everything you needed." _Stark actually stopped mid-pour and Natasha turned whip fast back towards the speaker.

"_We'll send you all the relevant information we dig up as soon possible. As for your end, if you could create a timeline for the days up to the incident for both the dead guy and Doctor Strange, we'd appreciate it."_

They could hear a faint rumble and then a deep purr from a powerful engine in the background and Dean's voice yelling, "_Sammy! Come on!"_

"_Oh and one last thing. If you so much as think of betraying us or double cross us in _any_ way, you won't live very long to regret it."_ The threat was delivered with ice-cold menace, made all the more chilling by the way Sam's voice had gone from business friendly to deadly in a heartbeat._ "And it won't be me or even Cas you'll have to worry about. It'll be Dean, and trust me when I tell you that my brother is the single scariest person I've ever met. And I once spent eight months with Lucifer talking in my head."_

"_I'm looking forward to meeting you." _And with that Sam Winchester left, audibly slamming the barn door closed after him.

Staring at the now silent speaker, Hawkeye felt his shoulders tense up again. Sam and Dean Winchester were definitely as dangerous as their files had indicated. Possibly even more so.

Fuck.

* * *

**References:** I've decided to move any and all explaining comments about the various references in each chapter to the end so as to avoid spoilers. As for this chapter in a couple of "blink or you'll miss it" cameos I proudly present references to Frank Deveroux (crazy conspiracy guy from season 7 of Supernatural) and Barney Barton older brother of Hawkeye and all-round douchebag._  
_


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